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“I can’t explain it, Mr Bunny. Who would do such a terrible thing?”
Her face a picture of distress, Mrs Strachan turned to the wall-mounted television permanently tuned to ITV — it was showing Back to the Future III — and switched it off so she could focus on the enormity of the crime that had been committed.
The appetising smells emanating from various ovens made Bunny’s mouth water and were almost enough to distract him from his misery. Mrs Strachan had been deep into preparations for tonight’s Christmas Eve dinner — roast venison marinated in pomegranate molasses and crushed juniper, served with rosemary and garlic roast vegetables, Malcolm Cary’s favourite dish, followed by salted caramel cheesecake, which was Xan’s second-favourite dessert after anything involving butterscotch — when Bunny had popped into the kitchen to check on his latest brilliant innovation, only to find it gone.
Together, he and Mrs Strachan stared at the empty cake tin. Only a trail of crumbs and a few bits of shredded coconut remained to attest to his genius.
“It was going to be a gift for Ali.” Bunny heard a wobble in his voice.
“And you worked so hard on it, too.” Mrs Strachan patted his arm in comforting fashion. “Och, Mr Bunny, there’s still time to make another one. The bairns are all with their grandpa and Mr Alistair won’t be in from the fields for another good few hours yet. If you can recall the ingredients you need, I’m sure we can put our hands to them.”
She made an expansive gesture towards the pantry, which was stocked with every kind of comestible as well as plenty of gadgets, useful and useless alike.
Bunny considered. He used to be intimidated by Whitekirk’s kitchen, with its eighteenth-century high ceilings and a fireplace so vast, a whole ox could be roasted in its maw. Modern brushed steel appliances complemented the antique cupboards and original panelling, the wood all painted a calming shade somewhere between sage green and cream. With rows of copper pans hanging from wrought-iron hooks, and pails planted with herbs sitting on the red-tiled window sills, the overall effect was so clean, so photogenic, Bunny had been reluctant to even make himself a cup of tea for fear of cluttering up the perfect Country Life image.
Having children had calmed his fears. First Mal, then Robbie and Xan, had all made their way into Mrs Strachan’s domain as they grew old enough to stand on little footstools and join in stirring, kneading, shaping, and baking. When Bunny was between assignments, one of his greatest joys was spending time in the kitchen with his offspring, helping Mal perfect his lemon curd tarts or picking dough out of Xan’s hair or preventing Robbie from feeding inappropriate foodstuffs to the dogs.
Now the kitchen felt as welcoming as the rest of the castle. So much so, that Bunny had been inspired to create a masterpiece here only yesterday. A surprise for his gorgeous husband, who worked too hard and was out tending to the land and to animals at all hours, in all weather, while Bunny — when he wasn’t photographing aristos and celebrities for Tatler — pootled around at home reviewing the thousands of images he’d shot for his half of his latest collaboration with Leander. And yes, pootling around reviewing and editing photos was actually work, thank you very much, especially when the results would be exhibited at Gallery Touch and carry four- or five-figure price tags, but still, he wanted to show Ali the depth of his love and devotion, and as they say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, what could be better than rolling up his sleeves and getting all floury?
So that’s what he’d done. He’d snuck down to the kitchen, an idea fully-formed in his head, and with Mrs Strachan’s help he’d created the Snow Bunny. A testament in cake to his love for his husband, it consisted of a vanilla-coconut sponge in the shape of a rabbit, filled with pineapple cream and a rum-infused pineapple gel, with a delicate dusting of shredded coconut to resemble snow.
It had been magnificent. The kind of delicacy that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the table of a Renaissance king. Even Leander would have acknowledged it as a work of art.
And now it was gone. Disappeared. Eaten by some miscreant.
“Mr Bunny?” Mrs Strachan was looking at him with concern. “It’s almost three o’clock, and there’s still much to be done. If you need my help to make another Snow Bunny, it has to be now.”
He wanted to accept her offer, wanted to get stuck into baking the way Mal did — his oldest son would surely be on Bake Off one day, that’s how good he was — but the truth was...
Bunny sighed. “The truth is, Mrs S, I don’t know if I could recreate the recipe. It was just a moment of pure good fortune that it all came together the way it did. Lightning can’t strike twice.”
“Don’t be daft, Mr Bunny. That old tree out past the formal lawns, on the way to the fishing tabernacle? That’s been struck by lightning three times that I know of. Now don’t be disheartened, hen, we can find a way through this. Vanilla sponge, there’s nothing difficult about that. And I’m sure there’s an old copper flummery mould in the shape of a rabbit, we can bake the batter in that this time rather than cutting the sponge until it looked like a bunny...”
“That’d be helpful — it took me ages to get the shape right. But,” Bunny straightened from his defeated slump and lifted a defiant fist, “first I must discover who ate my snow bunny and I must punish them!”
Mrs Strachan was already taking mixing bowls and glass jugs from the cupboards. “Punish them? Are you thinking it’s young Mr Alexander then?”
Bunny narrowed his eyes. “Why? Do you think Xan ate the snow bunny?”
She shrugged and started measuring out flour. “I’m saying that wee laddie takes after his daddy when it comes to sweet treats.”
That was certainly true. However...
“We shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” Bunny said. “Robbie can be just as bad as her twin, and of course Mal may have been so impressed by the snow bunny that he ate it in order to work out how it was made.”
“Mm-hmm.” Mrs Strachan’s expression gave nothing away. “There’s also his lordship the marquess. I set out his favourite tray for elevenses as usual, but he didn’t eat the shortbread biscuits. Perhaps he came in while I was in the kitchen garden picking herbs, and he helped himself out of the cake tin.”
“How long were you outside?”
“Maybe an hour? I got chatting to one of the stable-hands, the young lass from Malton, and she was asking about growing strewing herbs for the ponies next year, so I showed her around the garden and the glasshouse, it’s warmer in there. I remember Loose Women was just finishing when I came back inside.”
That narrowed down the window of opportunity for the thief, but still told him nothing about who took the snow bunny.
“Well, it wasn’t you and it wasn’t me.” Bunny leaned against the marble-topped counter and stroked his chin, hoping he looked wise. “There’s only one thing for it, Mrs S — I’ll gather clues and solve the mystery of who ate the snow bunny!”
“Och aye,” she said. “You do that, and I’ll get on with making another one.”
*
Conscious that an outright — and potentially incorrect — accusation could officially Ruin Christmas, Bunny embarked on his clue-finding mission. In recent months he’d become addicted to logic grid puzzles, and fancied that he could apply his top thinking skills to the mystery currently before him. After half an hour, he’d uncovered the following clues:
Evidence
- The four suspects are Mal, the one on the pool terrace, the one who left a trail of crumbs, and the one who had high tea.
- The suspect who went to Home Farm had muddy shoes.
- Robbie did not leave a trail of crumbs.
- Mal was not in the study, nor did he watch Loose Women.
- Malcolm Cary owns a silver tea tray.
- Puppy training is banned from the study and the kitchen.
- There isn't a television in the study, nor are there any crumbs.
- Robbie was either training the puppies or giving Swampy a snack.
- Xan was in the kitchen.
- A farting dog was seen on the pool terrace.
(Hover over the images around the grid to identify each suspect, clue, location and incident. To fill out the grid, click once in a square for an X and a twice for a tick.)
Once Bunny has worked out who was where, doing what, and for what reason, it's time to confront the snow bunny cake thief!
He stood outside the study door, one hand raised to knock. Was he really going to accuse his father-in-law, the Marquess of Whitekirk, of stealing a cake — a lovingly crafted work of taste sensation — out of the tin?
Bunny reviewed his findings and his heart sank. Perhaps vibes-based reasoning wasn't the right way of going about this. Would Jessica Fletcher be so haphazard? Would Bergerac? He wasn’t at all sure that his father-in-law had eaten the snow bunny. Maybe he’d gone about the logic puzzle the wrong way. He seemed to recall that Malcolm didn’t like rum, and he wasn’t fond of coconut, either.
It must’ve been Robbie. Slowcoach’s tummy was definitely upset, and dogs probably shouldn’t eat pineapple.
Or had Mal taken the snow bunny and fed it to Swampy?
Or had it, inevitably, been Xan all along?
There was only one way to find out. It was easier to accuse the marquess than confront any of his children. Malcolm Cary would probably take it as a joke, whereas the kids... it really didn’t bear thinking about.
Bunny drew in a deep, steadying breath and prepared himself.
“Bun? What are you doing?” Alistair came through the corridor, bringing with him the scent of the outdoors — mud, pine, farmyard smells. His face was flushed with cold, his eyes bright, and his chestnut hair ruffled from wearing the beanie, a sad, misshapen thing that Bunny had knitted for him last Christmas, that was now stuffed into a pocket of his ancient Barbour.
“I’m, um.” Bunny made a vague gesture.
“If you want to talk to Father, you know you can go straight in.” Alistair hooked a finger into the belt-loops of Bunny’s jeans and pulled him in for a kiss. “You’d be wasting your time knocking, anyway. I saw him through the salon windows playing WiiFit with the children. It looked like tennis. Or maybe it’s interpretative dance. Something like that, anyway. What did you need to speak to him about?”
“Ah,” Bunny said, scrunching his nose. “It’s nothing. Just. I made you a cake as a Christmas gift. Not your only gift, don’t worry, I also got you that book on— Forget I said that, I haven’t got you anything but socks, okay, baby? Definitely no ticket to that exhibition in... or....”
“Bunny.” Alistair’s green gaze was patient and tender. “You made me a cake?”
“Oh yeah. I did. Ask Mrs Strachan! And then someone ate it. Not me or Mrs Strachan, obviously. And I’ve been gathering clues and based on my gut—”
“I love your gut.” Alistair prodded a finger into the small roll of flesh above Bunny’s waistband.
He sucked in. Wow, he really needed to hit the gym in the New Year. A dad bod was all right for 40-somethings but he was a hot young 39.
His husband tickled him, and Bunny curled over, giggling and squirming.
“The cake,” Alistair reminded him.
“Someone ate it.” Bunny raked a hand through his hair and sighed. “And based on the evidence, it’s someone I love. Ali, baby, I hate to say this, but—”
“This cake,” Alistair said, frowning, his head tipped to one side, “did it have pineapple in it? And some sort of alcohol?”
Bunny straightened, his heart pounding. “Yes. Pineapple cream and pineapple gel spiked with rum enrobed,” oh God had he just used that word? He’d watched too much Masterchef: The Professionals, “in a vanilla-coconut sponge and glazed, kinda, with shredded coconut.”
His husband’s frown had gone, and now a pink tinge spread across his high cheekbones. “And was it shaped like a hedgehog?”
Bunny’s mouth dropped open. “It was a rabbit! A snow bunny!”
Alistair’s expression softened into delight. “Oh, Bun, you sweet darling man. You made a snow bunny for us.”
“For you, actually,” Bunny said. “It totally didn’t look like a hedgehog, by the way. But you’ve seen it — you tasted it — that means...”
Alistair winced. “I ate it. I’m sorry, my heart, I just grabbed something from the tin this morning on my way out. I didn’t even turn the light on in the kitchen. It was there, and I ate it. It was very good, by the way. Delicious. I could eat another.”
Bunny grumbled, but secretly he was pleased. The snow bunny had gone to its rightful recipient after all, and more importantly for future family harmony, he hadn’t accused his father-in-law of petty theft. Even so, he wasn’t about to let on that Mrs Strachan was making more snow bunnies. Not yet, anyway.
“There aren’t any more,” he said, trying to look sad.
“Oh no?” Alistair brushed his nose against Bunny’s, smiling. “Maybe I’ll just have to eat you, my Bunny, instead. Race you upstairs?”
A dirty grin curled Bunny’s mouth as he chased his husband up the grand staircase. He hadn’t ruined Christmas at all.